


Constraints

by cruisedirector



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: BDSM, Control Issues, F/M, Kink, Love, Mind Games, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-18
Updated: 2001-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Operations and Madeline try to work out their control issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constraints

**Author's Note:**

> This, the only _La Femme Nikita_ story I have ever managed to finish, is nasty and probably unpleasant, but since it's about Operations and Madeline, I wouldn't believe it otherwise.

She lies bound to the steel bed, arms tied above her head with leather straps. The position exposes her throat, her hairless armpits, the underside of her breasts -- skin so white it almost looks blue.

Her ankles are tied similarly, but braced against the metal bars to force her knees to bend. A few strands of silver gleam in the mossy darkness of her pubic hair. Underneath, her labia poke out indiscreetly, swollen red and damp, the only suggestion of her body's mood.

"Harder," she says.

He dislikes the nipple clamps which mar his view of her breasts -- dislikes having to turn the tiny thumbscrews rather than rubbing his thumbs over the soft-hard buttons in the center. But he obeys, and is rewarded with a tiny gasp from her. Sweat trickles down her long, elegant neck. It must tickle, but she allows herself no squirming.

"The blindfold," she orders instead.

This he hates even more than the clamps: that she will not let him see her eyes. "No," he frowns, his first disobedience. "This part we're doing my way."

Her glare could freeze water, but she does not protest. She is not in any position to protest; that is the point. He knows that if he would allow it, she would leave him a list of written instructions and insist on the gag, too. He will not permit her that distance.

For her this is business. Like fitness and strategy sessions, sexual preparedness is essential to their work. She is one of the best trainers of young operatives in this area; he has studied her tapes, been stunned at her innovation. Still, he has never personally shared that aspect of her talents, though they were lovers years ago, when she was more willing to share experiences for their own sake.

Perhaps she was more vulnerable then. She was certainly more capable of expressing guilt. When she finally mastered her horror at having caused her sister's death, when her mother died, she seemed to stop feeling it. In fact, she seemed to stop feeling everything.

Now he is not precisely her lover. He is the only person she trusts to train her against such vulnerability. It is exquisite torture -- more so for him than for her. But he would not give it up even for control over the desire for it.

"Let's begin, then. The prod."

How he hates all the devices. Just once he would like to use only his body, his big hands as restraints, and his thicker, hairy legs against her smooth calves. His teeth, his fingernails, his knees, his cock...all are tools that can draw sensation from her, as they did long ago. Surely she knows enemy captors might use their own bodies as instruments of torture, rather than an elaborate regimen of equipment like that on the table beside him.

But he would never be an enemy captor to her. Not even if he bound and gagged her, blindfolded her so that she could not see his eyes. There is nothing his body could do to her against her will.

"Now."

Shocks at the lowest setting have no effect on her expression, not even inside her thigh, centimeters from her clitoris. He turns up the dial, presses the prod against her anus. Her back arches off the bed and her eyes close briefly as power sparks through her. She prefers him to start on her lower body and work his way up, but he is afraid of the higher settings when he reaches her armpits -- all that electricity so close to her heart, the throbbing pulse in her neck. He has seen it stilled, refuses to experience that again. Certainly not by his own hand, not by accident.

Instead he shocks the backs of her knees, her biceps, her hard tight belly. When it is not enough, he pours acidic fluid on her skin, just enough to make her scald pink, and shocks her again. The stench is faint yet awful. He longs to bury his face in her hair, the softest part of her. She takes down the bun for special occasions, for the condemned who deserve to see a woman as she kills.

As he slackens the restraints to make her rest for a moment, he considers rolling her over to give her some of the privacy she craves. But that may be too difficult for him. More than once she has demanded that he fuck her in the ass, with no lubrication, using a large plastic rod to push open the passage. She bled, but he came anyway. The sight of her in that position makes him queasy now.

Plus she will expect him to whip her if he exposes her back. He would rather use his palms, smacking the well-toned flesh until he can feel it burning against his hands. The whips raise ugly welts, and he hates her enthusiasm when he draws blood, marring the clarity of her ageless porcelain skin. It reminds him of the fires he set in Vietnam. He has seen her use a whip on captured operatives when she determines personal intervention will succeed where drugs have not; she lashes expertly, but without real enthusiasm. Her most effective method of discipline involves only light restraints, the slap of her hand, the promise of torment in her voice.

Once she asked him to watch while she broke in a new agent, a cocky young guy who wanted to show off. When she got rough, the man responded in kind, trying to force himself on her in ways she didn't intend. She didn't bite hard enough to make him pass out, not all at once, but a few hours later a blood clot sent him into surgery. It was unlikely the man could have had children, even had he not been killed on an abeyance mission the next month.

Only with himself, her equal, will she experiment with degradation. Some of the things she asks him to do to her embarrass him; sometimes the pleasure he feels is more shameful than the acts themselves. She rarely wishes to repeat anything that has given them both pleasure at once, unless she knows it makes him uncomfortable, like tightening a noose around her throat until she goes into convulsions beneath him. This is his training, too.

Too quickly, he aches with desire. Leaving her on the bed, he crosses the room to swallow some of the liquor confiscated earlier from a junior agent. Its sweet taste burns his throat.

He will have to finish her quickly, or risk humiliating himself -- something he cannot chance now, when she may be plotting against him. No longer does she seem content to be in charge behind the scenes. Lately he has seen signs that she wants to give all the orders, run the whole show. She must be feeling completely in control of herself to harbor such desires. Before, she always stopped, not for fear of him, but because she did not trust her own reaction to that power.

He wonders how long it would take him to go insane if she chose to destroy him.

No, he cannot allow that: he will remind her of why she still needs him. The towel beneath her is wet, he pulls it away. "The razor," she requests, but he shakes his head, loosens the nipple clamps enough to be distracting to her. One finger inside her vagina, two, three. When she says, "Not this," he takes her face in his free hand, pinching her cheeks in so that she cannot speak.

He will not use any of the vibrators, although they offer the most powerful test of all. She cannot help coming with the butterfly against her clit, even while he holds a cigarette lighter to the underside of her breasts. Once he left an inch-long silver bullet humming inside her until she pissed all over the bed trying to push it out. The vibrators are too easy for her.

Instead, now, he will give her the blindfold. He pushes a big ribbed dildo into her anus and begins to lick.

"No," she objects, calmly at first. "Don't do this." That is always a good sign. So is her silence when he bites down on her labia, hard at first, then more gently. Her passage is surprisingly small, his fingers have trouble staying spread side by side. With his other hand he tightens the restraints on her wrists and ankles, so that any tension in her body arches her back and presses her toward his mouth. The wet noise within her intensifies as he scissors his fingers, continues to nibble.

"No," a little angry now. His chin is getting soaked, his fingers wrinkling inside her. Looking up he can see the dark pink indentations in her skin where the clamps press down. He rakes at the skin of her inner thighs. The "no"s are coming faster, especially when he catches her clit in his teeth. It would be wonderful if she said his name, but she keeps up her denials until he yanks out the dildo. At that, she clamps down on his fingers, surges against his face and screams.

This is his favorite part. He unbinds the restraints, removes the blindfold, pulls her body straight on the bed. He plunges his cock into her before he frees her wrists, but his hands are ready to restrain her as soon as she is loose, and his bent knees pin her thighs beneath him. Now he can feel her nipples with his fingers, rubbing sensation back into them as he fucks. Such pleasure to sink his teeth into the skin where her neck meets her shoulder. She screams again. Biting once more, this time her breast, he pinches her nipple as hard as the clamp. She tears a hand from his to claw at his face. But it is easy for him to evade her, so she drops the hand, groping for his balls instead. His eyes haze from pain as her fingernails dig in.

"Bitch," he accuses, barely hearing himself as he slaps her arm away and slams his head into hers. "You love this, don't you, oh god, Madeline, I love you..."

Abruptly her cries cease. But he can still feel her coming, trying to hold still before she spasms around him, clenching and releasing muscles that cannot possibly be under her control. He waits for her to stop before he jerks out of her, holding her for a moment in his arms, torso crushing her breasts. Then he tears himself away and rolls her over, bending her knees so he can thrust inside, all the way home. Molten heat surrounds him inside and out as he erupts, clutching her hips, shoving himself inside her even after his cock has started to go limp.

"Are you finished?" she asks calmly when his groans fade. He knows she is furious. It is forbidden to say what he said, especially at such a moment. After he pulls out, releasing her, she climbs from the bed without looking at him and walks straight to the shower. He wraps a sheet around his waist and gets up to pour himself another drink.

When she returns, she has dressed and her hair is up. The high heels click on the hard floor until she reaches the rug. She smells clean, fresh, unsullied. He has washed in the sink, thrown on his clothes, now he offers her a glass of wine, which she takes with a slight inclination of her head as thanks. She does not appear to be angry at him.

"We lost control," she observes in a clinical, detached voice.

"I thought that was the point."

"No. The point is to stay in control no matter what our bodies are doing."

"Even with each other?"

Her lidded stare as she sips the wine tells him that _that_ was the point. He wonders what she would have been like a thousand years in the past, as a feudal queen, or a hundred years ago as a streetwalker. He has been with women who were more beautiful, and some who were as powerful as she. But none ever made him feel love. He had started to doubt that he could feel the emotion. Now he knows he must, because she owns him.

Her eyes shift away from his hungry gaze. "I think we need to bring in other people. Outsiders. Anyone to whom we feel drawn, or an emotional connection."

"What if there is no one else?"

He is sure she will choose to think his reply is just flattery, so he grins. But she does not smile back. "Don't say that again," she warns.

He knows then that he has won. That she will return with him here, to keep trying to purge him until finally they have no feelings at all.

She will not succeed until one of them is dead.

It is a constraint he can live with.


End file.
